you can hear It. It Breathes against you. It Breathes in spite of you. you are merely a Pawn in Its creation.

I mean, how many more times must our stories be told?And being lonely’s only fun in a group;It sort of loses it’s charm when it’s true.

you can’t do anything against its noise and chaos and pain and hate and loudness and rage and anxiety and compulsions and noise and paranoia and eating disorders and thoughts and opinions and concerns and just everything. there is too much. and the Mind never stops. NEVER STOPS.

So now you know all my secrets.I want out; I know I don’t need this.Can you find me friends that don’t rank me on what I’ve been through?The more battle scars, the more attention it gets you.

Don’t tell the others, but it’s all getting old.

but I Like it; rather I Need it. I hold on to it. I don’t move past it. because I’m scared about what’s beyond me, what’s More than me, what is -Without Me-.

I meant it when I said,“I wanna get well! I wanna get well!”Are the rest of you so content?Stay where you are, but it hurts like hell.And I’m sure it’s fun at first;test your pulse, and check your vitals.If it’s only a Game, you lost me.I quit it with the Suicidal Recital.

shit. I can’t even pretend I know the original direction this post was going in…..

I was lost. hopeless. depressed. so many of those Old and Comforting Feelings I had. but Brian suggested I Write instead of mope. Write. how often do I Write anymore? and what of that which I Write even matters anymore? I mean, none of it really. at least back then, it was the Truth as per a small child whose life was important. now I’m adult who’s thrown off on her own and matters not.

Yeah, we should’ve known it would End this way.What did you expect? — pretend it all Away?And all we’ve got left is a sorry pile of hearts.I’m getting out — gonna write myself a new Start.Come on, dry your eyes, meet me on the other side.Run as fast as you can, and we’ll make it out alive.We know better now; we don’t have to live like This.Go tell them all we don’t have to live like This.

why don’t you ever want to play?
I’m tired of this piece of string.
you sleep as much as I do now,
and you don’t eat much of anything.
I don’t know who you’re talking to;
I made a search through every room,
but all I found was dust that moved
in shadows of the afternoon.

and listen,
about those bitter songs you sing —
they’re not helping anything;
they won’t make you strong.

so we should open up the house,
invite the tabby two doors down.
you could ask your sister, if
she doesn’t bring her basset hound.
ask the things you shouldn’t miss:
tape-hiss and the Modern Man,
the Cold War and card catalogues
to come and join us if they can
for girly drinks and parlor games.
we’ll pass around the easy lie
of absolutely no regrets.
and later maybe you could try to let your losses…